The Dragon Megapack

by Wildside Press

  The heroes in grave, and no voice of the harp is,

  No game in the garths such as erewhile was gotten.

  XXXV. BEOWULF TELLS OF PAST FEUDS, AND BIDS FAREWELL TO HIS FELLOWS: HE FALLS ON THE WORM, AND THE BATTLE OF THEM BEGINS.

  Then to sleeping-stead wendeth he, singeth he sorrow,

  The one for the other; o’er-roomy all seem’d him

  The meads and the wick-stead. So the helm of the Weders

  For Herebeald‘s sake the sorrow of heart

  All welling yet bore, and in nowise might he

  On the banesman of that life the feud be a-booting;

  Nor ever the sooner that warrior might hate

  With deeds loathly, though he to him nothing was lief.

  He then with the sorrow wherewith that sore beset him

  Man’s joy-tide gave up, and chose him God’s light.

  To his offspring he left, e’en as wealthy man doeth,

  His land and his folk-burgs when he from life wended.

  Then sin was and striving of Swedes and of Geats,

  Over the wide water war-tide in common,

  The hard horde-hate to wit sithence Hrethel perish’d;

  And to them ever were the Ongentheow’s sons

  Doughty and host-whetting, nowise then would friendship

  Hold over the waters; but round about Hreosnaburgh

  The fierce fray of foeman was oftentimes fram’d.

  Kin of friends that mine were, there they awreaked

  The feud and the evil deed, e’en as was famed;

  Although he, the other, with his own life he bought it,

  A cheaping full hard: unto Hæthcyn it was,

  To the lord of the Geat-folk, a life-fateful war.

  Learned I that the morrow one brother the other

  With the bills’ edges wreaked the death on the banesman,

  Whereas Ongentheow is a-seeking of Eofor:

  Glode the war-helm asunder, the aged of Scylfings

  Fell, sword-bleak; e’en so remember’d the hand

  Feud enough; nor e’en then did the life-stroke withhold.

  I to him for the treasure which erewhile he gave me

  Repaid it in warring, as was to me granted,

  With my light-gleaming sword. To me gave he land,

  The hearth and the home-bliss: unto him was no need

  That unto the Gifthas or unto the Spear-Danes

  Or into the Swede-realm he needs must go seeking

  A worse wolf of war for a worth to be cheaping;

  For in the host ever would I be before him

  Alone in the fore-front, and so life-long shall I

  Be a-framing of strife, whileas tholeth the sword,

  Which early and late hath bestead me full often,

  Sithence was I by doughtiness unto Day-raven

  The hand-bane erst waxen, to the champion of Hug-folk;

  He nowise the fretwork to the king of the Frisians,

  The breast-worship to wit, might bring any more,

  But cringed in battle that herd of the banner,

  The Atheling in might: the edge naught was his bane,

  But for him did the war-grip the heart-wellings of him

  Break, the house of the bones. Now shall the bill’s edge,

  The hand and hard sword, about the hoard battle.

  So word uttered Beowulf, spake out the boast word

  For the last while as now: Many wars dared I

  In the days of my youth, and now will I yet,

  The old warder of folk, seek to the feud,

  Full gloriously frame, if the scather of foul-deed

  From the hall of the earth me out shall be seeking.

  Greeted he then each one of the grooms,

  The keen wearers of helms, for the last while of whiles,

  His own fellows the dear: No sword would I fare with,

  No weapon against the Worm, wist I but how

  ‘Gainst the monster of evil in otherwise might I

  Uphold me my boast, as erst did I with Grendel;

  But there fire of the war-tide full hot do I ween me,

  And the breath, and the venom; I shall bear on me therefore

  Both the board and the byrny; nor the burg’s warden shall I

  Overflee for a foot’s-breadth, but unto us twain

  It shall be at the wall as to us twain Weird willeth,

  The Maker of each man. Of mood am I eager;

  So that ’gainst that war-flier from boast I withhold me.

  Abide ye upon burg with your byrnies bewarded,

  Ye men in your battle-gear, which may the better

  After the slaughter-race save us from wounding

  Of the twain of us. Naught is it yours to take over,

  Nor the measure of any man save alone me,

  That he on the monster should mete out his might,

  Or work out the earlship: but I with my main might

  Shall gain me the gold, or else gets me the battle,

  The perilous life-bale, e’en me your own lord.

  Arose then by war-round the warrior renowned

  Hard under helm, and the sword-sark he bare

  Under the stone-cliffs: in the strength then he trowed

  Of one man alone; no dastard’s way such is.

  Then he saw by the wall (e’en he, who so many,

  The good of man-bounties, of battles had out-liv’d,

  Of crashes of battle whenas hosts were blended)

  A stone-bow a-standing, and from out thence a stream

  Breaking forth from the burg; was that burn’s outwelling

  All hot with the war-fire; and none nigh to the hoard then

  Might ever unburning any while bide,

  Live out through the deep for the flame of the drake.

  Out then from his breast, for as bollen as was he,

  Let the Weder-Geats’ chief the words be out faring;

  The stout-hearted storm’d and the stave of him enter’d

  Battle-bright sounding in under the hoar stone.

  Then uproused was hate, and the hoard-warden wotted

  The speech of man’s word, and no more while there was

  Friendship to fetch. Then forth came there first

  The breath of the evil beast out from the stone,

  The hot sweat of battle, and dinn’d then the earth.

  The warrior beneath the burg swung up his war-round

  Against that grisly guest, the lord of the Geats;

  Then the heart of the ring-bow’d grew eager therewith

  To seek to the strife. His sword ere had he drawn,

  That good lord of the battle, the leaving of old,

  The undull of edges: there was unto either

  Of the bale-minded ones the fear of the other.

  All steadfast of mind stood against his steep shield

  The lord of the friends, when the Worm was a-bowing

  Together all swiftly, in war-gear he bided;

  Then boune was the burning one, bow’d in his going,

  To the fate of him faring. The shield was well warding

  The life and the lyke of the mighty lord king

  For a lesser of whiles than his will would have had it,

  If he at that frist on the first of the day

  Was to wield him, as weird for him never will’d it,

  The high-day of battle. His hand he up braided,

  The lord of the Geats, and the grisly-fleck’d smote he

  With the leaving of Ing, in such wise that the edge fail’d,

  The brown blade on the bone, and less mightily bit

  Than the king of the nation had need in that stour,

  With troubles beset. But then the burg-warden

  After the war-swing all wood of his mood

  Cast forth the slaughter-flame, sprung thereon widely

  The battle-gleams: nowise of victory he boasted,

  The gold-friend of the Geats; his war-bill had falter’d,

&n
bsp; All naked in war, in such wise as it should not,

  The iron exceeding good. Naught was it easy

  For him there, the mighty-great offspring of Ecgtheow,

  That he now that earth-plain should give up for ever;

  But against his will needs must he dwell in the wick

  Of the otherwhere country; as ever must each man

  Let go of his loan-days. Not long was it thenceforth

  Ere the fell ones of fight fell together again.

  The hoard-warden up-hearten’d him, welled his breast

  With breathing anew. Then narrow need bore he,

  Encompass’d with fire, who erst the folk wielded;

  Nowise in a heap his hand-fellows there,

  The bairns of the athelings, stood all about him

  In valour of battle; but they to holt bow’d them;

  Their dear life they warded; but in one of them welled

  His soul with all sorrow. So sib-ship may never

  Turn aside any whit to the one that well thinketh.

  XXXVI. WIGLAF SON OF WEOHSTAN GOES TO THE HELP OF BEOWULF: NÆGLING, BEOWULF’S SWORD, IS BROKEN ON THE WORM.

  Wiglaf so hight he, the son of Weohstan,

  Lief linden-warrior, and lord of Scylfings,

  The kinsman of Aelfhere: and he saw his man-lord

  Under his host-mask tholing the heat;

  He had mind of the honour that to him gave he erewhile.

  The wick-stead the wealthy of them, the Wægmundings,

  And the folk-rights each one which his father had owned.

  Then he might not withhold him, his hand gripp’d the round,

  Yellow linden; he tugg’d out withal the old sword,

  That was known among men for the heirloom of Eanmund,

  Ohthere’s son, unto whom in the strife did become,

  To the exile unfriended, Weohstan for the bane

  With the sword-edge, and unto his kinsmen bare off

  The helm the brown-brindled, the byrny beringed,

  And the old eoten-sword that erst Onela gave him;

  Were they his kinsman’s weed of the war,

  Host-fight-gear all ready. Of the feud nothing spake he.

  Though he of his brother the bairn had o’er-thrown.

  But the host-gear befretted he held many seasons,

  The bill and the byrny, until his own boy might

  Do him the earlship as did his ere-father.

  Amidst of the Geats then he gave him the war-weed

  Of all kinds unnumber’d, whenas he from life wended

  Old on the forth-way. Then was the first time

  For that champion the young that he the war-race

  With his high lord the famed e’er he should frame:

  Naught melted his mood, naught the loom of his kinsman

  Weaken’d in war-tide; that found out the Worm

  When they two together had gotten to come.

  Now spake out Wiglaf many words rightwise,

  And said to his fellows: all sad was his soul:

  I remember that while when we gat us the mead,

  And whenas we behight to the high lord of us

  In the beer-hall, e’en he who gave us these rings,

  That we for the war-gear one while would pay,

  If unto him thislike need e’er should befall,

  For these helms and hard swords. So he chose us from host

  To this faring of war by his very own will,

  Of glories he minded us, and gave me these gems here,

  Whereas us of gar-warriors he counted for good,

  And bold bearers of helms. Though our lord e’en for us

  This work of all might was of mind all alone

  Himself to be framing, the herd of the folk,

  Whereas most of all men he hath mightiness framed.

  Of deeds of all daring, yet now is the day come

  Whereon to our man-lord behoveth the main

  Of good battle-warriors; so thereunto wend we,

  And help we the host-chief, whiles that the heat be,

  The gleed-terror grim. Now of me wotteth God

  That to me is much liefer that that, my lyke-body,

  With my giver of gold the gleed should engrip.

  Unmeet it methinketh that we shields should bear

  Back unto our own home, unless we may erst

  The foe fell adown and the life-days defend

  Of the king of the Weders. Well wot I hereof

  That his old deserts naught such were, that he only

  Of all doughty of Geats the grief should be bearing.

  Sink at strife. Unto us shall one sword be, one helm,

  One byrny and shield, to both of us common.

  Through the slaughter-reek waded he then, bare his war-helm

  To the finding his lord, and few words he quoth:

  O Beowulf the dear, now do thee all well,

  As thou in thy youthful life quothest of yore,

  That naught wouldst thou let, while still thou wert living,

  Thy glory fade out. Now shalt thou of deeds famed,

  The atheling of single heart, with all thy main deal

  For the warding thy life, and to stay thee I will.

  Then after these words all wroth came the Worm,

  The dire guest foesome, that second of whiles

  With fire-wellings flecked, his foes to go look on,

  The loath men. With flame was lightly then burnt up

  The board to the boss, and might not the byrny

  To the warrior the young frame any help yet.

  But so the young man under shield of his kinsman

  Went onward with valour, whenas his own was

  All undone with gleeds; then again the war-king

  Remember’d his glories, and smote with mainmight

  With his battle-bill, so that it stood in the head

  Need-driven by war-hate. Then asunder burst Nægling,

  Waxed weak in the war-tide, e’en Beowulf’s sword,

  The old and grey-marked; to him was not given

  That to him any whit might the edges of irons

  Be helpful in battle; over-strong was the hand

  Which every of swords, by the hearsay of me,

  With its swing over-wrought, when he bare unto strife

  A wondrous hard weapon; naught it was to him better.

  Then was the folk-scather for the third of times yet,

  The fierce fire-drake, all mindful of feud;

  He rac’d on that strong one, when was room to him given,

  Hot and battle-grim; he all the halse of him gripped

  With bitter-keen bones; all bebloody’d he waxed

  With the gore of his soul. Well’d in waves then the war-sweat.

  XXXVII. THEY TWO SLAY THE WORM. BEOWULF IS WOUNDED DEADLY: HE BIDDETH WIGLAF BEAR OUT THE TREASURE.

  Then heard I that at need of the high king of folk

  The upright earl made well manifest might,

  His craft and his keenness as kind was to him;

  The head there he heeded not (but the hand burned

  Of that man of high mood when he helped his kinsman),

  Whereas he now the hate-guest smote yet a deal nether,

  That warrior in war-gear, whereby the sword dived,

  The plated, of fair hue, and thereby fell the flame

  To minish thereafter, and once more the king’s self

  Wielded his wit, and his slaying-sax drew out,

  The bitter and battle-sharp, borne on his byrny;

  Asunder the Weder’s helm smote the Worm midmost;

  They felled the fiend, and force drave the life out,

  And they twain together had gotten him ending,

  Those athelings sib. E’en such should a man be,

  A thane good at need. Now that to the king was

  The last victory-while, by the deeds of himself,

  Of his work of the world. Sithence fell the wound,

  That the
earth-drake to him had wrought but erewhile.

  To swell and to sweal; and this soon he found out,

  That down in the breast of him bale-evil welled,

  The venom withinward; then the Atheling wended,

  So that he by the wall, bethinking him wisdom.

  Sat on seat there and saw on the works of the giants,

  How that the stone-bows fast stood on pillars,

  The earth-house everlasting upheld withinward.

  Then with his hand him the sword-gory,

  That great king his thane, the good beyond measure,

  His friend-lord with water washed full well,

  The sated of battle, and unspanned his war-helm.

  Forth then spake Beowulf, and over his wound said,

  His wound piteous deadly; wist he full well,

  That now of his day-whiles all had he dreed,

  Of the joy of the earth; all was shaken asunder

  The tale of his days; death without measure nigh:

  Unto my son now should I be giving

  My gear of the battle, if to me it were granted

  Any ward of the heritage after my days

  To my body belonging. This folk have I holden

  Fifty winters; forsooth was never a folk-king

  Of the sitters around, no one of them soothly,

  Who me with the war-friends durst wend him to greet

  And bear down with the terror. In home have I abided

  The shapings of whiles, and held mine own well.

  No wily hates sought I; for myself swore not many

  Of oaths in unright. For all this may I,

  Sick with the life-wounds, soothly have joy.

  Therefore naught need wyte me the Wielder of men

  With kin murder-bale, when breaketh asunder

  My life from my lyke. And now lightly go thou

  To look on the hoard under the hoar stone,

  Wiglaf mine lief, now that lieth the Worm

  And sleepeth sore wounded, beshorn of his treasure;

  And be hasty that I now the wealth of old time,

  The gold-having may look on, and yarely behold

  The bright cunning gems, that the softlier may I

  After the treasure-weal let go away

  My life, and the folk-ship that long I have held.

  XXXVIII. BEOWULF BEHOLDETH THE TREASURE AND PASSETH AWAY.

  Then heard I that swiftly the son of that Weohstan

  After this word-say his lord the sore wounded,

  Battle-sick, there obeyed, and bare forth his ring-net,

  His battle-sark woven, in under the burg-roof;

  Saw then victory-glad as by the seat went he,

  The kindred-thane moody, sun-jewels a many,

  Much glistering gold lying down on the ground,

  Many wonders on wall, and the den of the Worm,